


Mind Over Matter

by orphan_account



Series: Henry [5]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Quote Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-04 23:09:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14603766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: September, 1937. Phryne returns to Australia after burying her father. A somber, enigmatic little meditation for the May quote challenge.





	Mind Over Matter

**Author's Note:**

> The quote prompt goes: “She resented the way in which he walked in and out of her mind as if it was his own flat.” For Phryne, that "he" is Henry.

**September, 1937**

Flying commercial allowed too much time to think, Phryne concluded. 

She sipped her tea in a comfortable lounge seat on British Imperial Airways, somewhere above the River Ganges between Delhi and Calcutta. Her current seat-mates, wives of officials of the Raj chattering incessantly about the summer’s gossip at Simla, were unafflicted by deep thought. Phryne smiled politely and ignored them, taking great pride in the power of controlling her own mind, a skill that had served her well in many difficult circumstances. 

Nearly a decade ago, Phryne had piloted this same path in her own plane, a folly passing as a romantic grand gesture to return her father to her mother’s waiting arms. Back then, her mind had been fully occupied by the challenges of keeping that small plane — wholly unsuited to the challenges of long-distance flight — safely aloft. In rare idle moments, her thoughts had completely bypassed the recalcitrant man in the other seat, settling instead on the better man she had left behind in Australia. The man she loved. The man who waited for her still. 

Baron Henry George Fisher was dead. Well and truly gone. Placed in the cold ground next to her mother at the family plot in Somerset. 

And yet he invaded her thoughts, walking in and out of her mind as if it was his own. 

He had been easier to control when he was alive. 

As Phryne looked up from her unread novel, she noticed a young man moving confidently down the aisle. Nearly thirty and plainly handsome, he was likely a minor noble or first-born son of a successful businessman — exactly the sort Margaret Fisher might have once wanted in a son-in-law. And yet there was a soft smile at the corner of his eyes as they made eye contact, suggesting he was the kind of man Phryne might have enjoyed passing time with once upon a time. 

The young man moved closer, extending his hand in greeting, when **_BAM!_** the plane dropped a hundred feet in a sickening jolt before levelling out again. 

The British matrons screamed and cursed the heavens. Phryne’s stomach dropped as she gripped the arm rest and braced her legs against the bolted chair leg. The young man fell forward, his left temple catching the sharp edge of the wooden tea table, as he landed sprawled at Phryne’s feet. 

“Turbulence,” she said calmly, helping him to a seated position and using her linen napkin to dab at the gash above his eye. “Perfectly normal given the atmospheric conditions this time of year.” 

“You speak from experience,” he ventured, smile returning to his face as he cautiously rose to his feet. 

“A similar air pocket nearly propelled my father out of an open-air two-seater near Allahabad,” she continued, deadpan. “Not that I would have minded all that much.” 

Phryne watched closely for his response, uncertain if he would locate the dark humor in her tone. 

“Percival Reading the Fourth,” he stated brightly, once again extending his hand in greeting. “If I could have managed to get Percy III in an open-air plane, I would have been sorely tempted to do the same.” 

Phryne returned his smile, then motioned for Percy to take the open seat on the opposite side of the aisle. Pushing aside the pieces of the broken tea setting, Phryne crossed the aisle to join him. 

“Tilt your head back,” she instructed, peering under the blooked-soaked cloth Percy held to his temple. “I don’t believe you’ll need stitches, but these kinds of injuries do bleed profusely.” 

“Airplanes, first aid,” Percy laughed. “What other talents are you hiding?” 

“I hide very few,” Phryne responded quickly. “I simply bring out the talents each occasion calls for.” 

“I supposed you’ll tell me you learned that from your father,” Percy parried, removing the makeshift bandage to look her in the eye. 

“Or in spite of him,” she answered, her tone shifting into a more somber register. “I’ve spent far too much time these past weeks trying to sort that out.” 

Percy remained quiet, aware that the verbal game had changed but uncertain how to respond. 

Phryne filled the awkward silence. “You see, I buried him last Tuesday.” 

“I’m terribly sorry,” Percy said. “My condolences.” There was a genuine warmth behind the practiced words. 

“Tilt your head back, Percy,” Phryne counseled. “We need to stop the bleeding.” 

A spot of blood marred his left cheek. Dried blood covered his ear. 

With his pale blue eyes — intelligent, curious, determined — Percy could have passed for a younger Henry in the right light. Or perhaps more accurately, a younger Henry Fisher, still poor and hustling, could have passed for any one of the Percival Readings. 

“Was you father a good man?” Percy asked. “I realize we were joshing about open planes earlier, but all in all, I wouldn’t be where I am without my old pater. I suppose I'll be exactly like him some day.” 

Percy chuckled, expecting Phryne to follow along in kind. He prepared to launch into a bawdy story about the old man when Phryne cut him off without preamble. 

“No, my father was not a good man,” Phryne said, “All in all.” 

Perplexed, Percy scratched at the dried blood on his ear. 

“My condolences,” he repeated, his tone more crisp and business-like. Percy unfolded himself from his chair and stood up with a groan. “I’d better go wash up,” he added, looking about the lounge cabin. “Wouldn’t want to frighten the women with more delicate sensibilities.” 

Phryne stood and shook Percy’s hand. The bleeding had now slowed to trickle. 

“You never told me your name,” Percy said as he took his leave. 

“The Honourable Phryne Fisher,” she answered. “Daughter of Baron Henry George Fisher. Last of the line.” 

After another six tortuous days of flying, Phryne landed in Sydney, the terminus of British Imperial Airways. 

Jack was there to meet her, standing steadfast in the arrivals line in his battered fedora, a smile playing at the corner of his eyes. A good man — perhaps better than she deserved. Henry hadn’t been able to tarnish that. She’d kept her barriers high, kept Henry far away, kept herself and her great love protected. It was a necessary trade-off. 

“I’ve missed you,” she breathed, now snug in Jack’s embrace. 

Jack read her exhaustion. “I should have been with you,” he whispered. “I wanted to be there with you.” 

“You were with me,” she answered. “I was never truly gone.” 


End file.
